The Case of the Fluffy First Meeting
by WildMeiLing
Summary: Because I do love a how-they-met story, even a fluffy one like this.
1. Chapter 1

_If you've decided to brave my (ridiculously romantic, but hopefully entertaining!) foray into the Perry Mason fandom, I am grateful to you. I've loved the characters for a long time, and Perry and Della were one of my first ships before I knew what shipping was. Reading stories here has made me quite happy._

 _Thanks so much for reading along!_

* * *

If he weren't completely exhausted, he would celebrate. Then again, the only person he had to celebrate with was just as exhausted as he was. Perry Mason wouldn't have won his most recent case - his thinnest-ice-skating work to date, culminating at the end of a nail-biting day in court with a spectacularly finagled confession made straight from the witness stand - without Paul Drake, private detective extraordinaire and Mason's right hand man. And Paul Drake wouldn't have managed to help save the day if he had given in to the urge to quit the fight and take a nap at some time during the previous night.

At this point, not even a steak dinner with all the trimmings would entice Paul Drake and his bicarbonate of soda-treated stomach. He was hearing the siren call of his bed, and was toying with the idea of unplugging the telephone, just in case his friend got any crazy, middle-of-the-night ideas. Again.

The problem was, Mason wouldn't be sleeping. Not right away, anyway. With adrenalin still coursing through his veins and unspeakable relief at saving his client from the irreversible injustice of the gas chamber, he needed a way to unwind.

He congratulated the freed man and his family, then made his way through the crowd of agitated spectators. He kept his head down - a rather late attempt at being humble - as the flash bulbs burst around him, and slipped through a side exit to avoid the reporters he knew would be swarming the steps of the courthouse. He was rapidly gaining a reputation for showmanship, and he wasn't normally one to shy away from the aftermath of publicity-garnering legal pyrotechnics; but today, he needed some air.

He left the courthouse and his car behind, pulling his hat low over his eyes and walking alongside the street that throbbed with rush hour traffic. It didn't always bother him - the honking and revving noises made by impatient drivers, the jostling bustle of pedestrians on their way to...where were they even going? Where were any of them going? He hadn't a clue.

That was just it. There was a restlessness underlying his exhaustion, an undetermined question casting a cloud over his victory, and his surroundings made him feel edgy.

Paul Drake had diagnosed him with loneliness. Mason had to admit it was a possibility, although he wasn't sure he and Paul were referring to the same brand of loneliness.

Mason wanted someone who shared his world view, his enthusiasm for mystery, his quest for adventure, his willingness to veer off life's beaten paths. Someone who understood his need to escape from the city every now and then. Someone who was equally comfortable with philosophical conversation and companionable silence. Someone who wasn't afraid of food with garlic and who loved the fox trot as much as he did. Someone who didn't mind risking arrest for a good cause, or even just for the fun of it.

Sure, Paul was supernaturally dependable and a great friend, but he didn't quite understand the things that drove Mason to stick his neck out the way he did. Besides, he was wary of garlic and he hated risking arrest.

Yes, his secretary was affable and trustworthy, not to mention efficiency personified, but the more she got involved with that dull-as-dishwater boyfriend of hers, the more interested she became in a job that let her open the office at ten 'til nine and lock it back up again no later than 5:31. Sadly, her divine dancing skills were wasted on her wallflower boyfriend. And she, too, had an aversion to arrest.

He did keep in touch with some of his friends from law school, who had settled in at respectable, well-established firms that operated in more conventional ways - the very definition of boring to Mason's mind. They had recognized when they were approaching the marrying stage of their lives; they all had wives and some of them had kids. Hell, one of the more successful ones even had a junior partnership and an ex-wife.

Paul Drake's interpretation of what ailed Mason differed significantly, and he was as convinced of the cure as he was of the condition. He frequently pointed out that a burgeoning fame enhanced Mason's peculiar combination of boyish charm and intense personality, giving him a surefire prescription for loneliness: his pick of pretty women. Mason couldn't deny that he enjoyed the company of pretty women, but beyond a dance partner for an evening and a few flirtatious rounds of drinks, his interest waned. There wasn't anything inherently wrong with pretty women. _Pretty_ was nice to look at. _Pretty_ was fun to spin around a dance floor. _Pretty_ was no guarantee of captivating conversation. _Pretty_ , on its own, didn't lead to the kind of relationship, romantic or otherwise, that could withstand Mason's dogged devotion to his vocation.

The wrong kind of pretty, he had learned, was how many of his clients got into such deep trouble. _Pretty_ with a healthy dose of flattered male ego, to be fair. He seemed to recall that was the formula that had led to his one friend ending up with an ex-wife.

But in his brushes with fame (he believed the boys over at the DA's office referred to it as "infamy"), _pretty_ was what sought him out, and he had a strong suspicion it was the calculated sort that assumed where fame went, fortune followed, or vice versa. Maybe that was true enough for famous businessmen, but he wasn't a businessman. He was a lawyer, and his own kind at that. Money was nice, but rarely did anything interesting come from being downright mercenary. For example, the client he had just left behind at the courthouse owned a little deli. Beyond a small retainer collected at the beginning of this mess, Mason didn't doubt he was going to be paid in installments of roast beef sandwich lunches.

That was just fine with him. The case had challenged him and had given him the chance to hone his craft. Also, he liked roast beef sandwiches.

His pace slowed. He reached up to push on his neck at the point where it met his tense shoulder. As he rolled his head from side to side and considered whether he had enough energy for a cigarette, he noticed he had stopped in front of a used bookstore. A slow smile took hold on his weary countenance. He pushed through the door, a little bell over the threshold ringing to announce his arrival in the hole-in-the-wall, literary treasure trove, and he breathed in the scent of old books shoved into wooden shelves already filled to capacity. Surely one of these would pair well with a generous tumbler of scotch.

"May I help you find anything?" The voice came from a wiry, gray-haired man behind a desk inundated with homeless tomes.

"Thanks, but I'm sure I'll know it when I see it."

The proprietor nodded his head in solemn agreement. Mason wondered if he had ever been able to turn away a book.

He strolled languidly through the aisles encroached upon by precariously stacked volumes, the unsettled feeling momentarily pushed aside. He paused to read the spines of bright, exciting covers as well as dull, worn, dusty ones. He wove his way from one genre to another.

Then he rounded a corner - carefully so as not to knock over a pile of mass market paperbacks - and found exactly what he had been looking for.

 _to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

She was reading Oliver Wendell Holmes, no less, her lips parted slightly as the words absorbed her. She clearly had forgotten where she was. She certainly had no idea he was watching her read.

She was probably too young for him, and there was something about her that brought out an almost brotherly instinct. Yet, a quiet inner voice told him not to judge her by her youthful cover. She was slender, but strong; her clothes understated, but well-tailored; her features fine, but animated by a spirit that made them impossibly more attractive. Her air was aristocratic, but he had the sense she was a working girl. Her perfume mingled with the aroma of yellowing pages, affecting him in a way that caused him to feel less brotherly by the second. He desperately wanted to see what color her eyes were.

Hazel. Deeply expressive hazel eyes set in a lovely face highlighted by magnificent cheekbones and framed by chestnut curls.

He knew that because suddenly she was looking at him, and he saw himself as she did - leaning one shoulder against a shelf, hat tipped back, ankles crossed, hands shoved in pockets as he stared unabashedly. He grinned at her, a sort of sorry-not-sorry grin.

His weak apology was not accepted. She closed the book around her thumb, scooped up a small stack of other volumes she had lain aside during her perusal, and headed down the aisle in the opposite direction. For a moment, he was hypnotized by the subtle sway of her hips keeping time with the steady staccato rhythm of her heels.

Then he came to his senses. Like hell was he going to let her get away that easily.

However, he realized following her would be counterproductive, not to mention inexcusably stalker-ish. He quickly took note of his surroundings, calculating his current position in relation to her most likely escape route, and decided to head her off at the pass.

When she came upon him, he was propped up against a book-lined wall, pretending to read something he had grabbed at random while he watched for her from the corner of his eye. He sensed the proper posture of her lithe form grow rigid, and he waited to see whether she would spin on her heel or push past him. He was trying to decide whether it would be appropriate to pursue her when it occurred to him that she had not actually moved at all.

Amusement was twitching at the corners of her lovely lips and sparkling in those beautiful eyes. He tried to look aloof and snapped the book shut with as much faux haughtiness as he could muster.

She arched one perfect, saucy eyebrow.

He narrowed his eyes, returning the unspoken question.

She answered by glancing pointedly at the book he held.

He pursed his lips as he noted the previously ignored cover. It had a flowery, romantic title of shudder-inducing proportions, and a man and woman gazing at each other with the sappiest expressions he had ever seen. This was one cover meant to be used to judge the plot inside, which was undoubtedly syrupy sweet and absurdly corny. He gave her a lopsided smile.

"It's for a book discussion group."

"Mm-hmm." The sound was throaty and rich and sarcastic. Impressively, she sort of managed to cross her arms full of books and waited to hear what he would say next.

He wondered how long they would have to date before he could respectably ask her to marry him.

"In fact," he replied airily, "now that I've found this, I should be going. If I leave now, I'll be on time for once."

"On time," she repeated wryly in her husky voice. It was the sexiest sound he had ever heard. "For your book discussion group."

"Yes," he said, straightening up. Then, in a cool and casual tone that fooled no one: "You're welcome to join. There's room for more."

She tilted her head and regarded him carefully. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to contribute much. I haven't read that one."

"Oh, well, neither have I. Yet. This -" he waggled the book dismissively "- is for the next meeting."

"I see. And what is the topic for this meeting?"

" _The Essential Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes_."

"I've only just started that one."

"That's okay. I promise you won't hear anything that will spoil the ending."

"How many people are in this group of yours?"

Mason tapped the edge of his romance novel against his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see... Counting you and me?" She nodded once. "That would make...two."

"Two people?"

"That's right."

"And where does this 'group' meet?"

"Just around the corner, in a well-lit diner along a busy thoroughfare."

"Isn't that convenient."

"You don't know the half of it. They have a meatloaf special on Wednesdays that you have to taste to believe."

"Isn't today Tuesday?"

"Yes, but the next meeting is tomorrow."

"Shouldn't you wait to see how tonight's meeting goes before scheduling the next one?"

"I'm not worried about tonight's meeting." She bristled slightly, and the small smile that had been playing on her mouth tightened a bit. "Is that so?"

"Tuesday's special is chicken and dumplings. It's like dying and going to heaven. And then coming back again, of course."

"For the meatloaf."

"For the apple pie."

"I don't know. Chicken and dumplings _and_ apple pie? I can't imagine book discussions burn that many calories."

She had begun to relax a little so with a mighty effort, he resisted the urge to let his eyes sweep over her delectably proportioned frame to determine whether it came from good genes or carefully meted out calories. "Then I would recommend skipping right to the pie."

"Apple pie for supper?"

"One must have one's priorities in order."

Finally, she smiled. Truly smiled without a hint of reserve. It was a smile that spoke volumes more than every printed page around them; and he knew then that, if she would let him, he would spend the rest of his life trying to read every word.

 _to be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Once upon a time, I was very good about responding to each and every review, but life has been much busier than usual, and it doesn't take much for a disorganized soul like myself to get behind. So a big, huge THANK YOU for all the reviews. Another big THANK YOU simply for reading along. This story does have a point and a destination, and though it might take me awhile, I promise we will get there eventually._

 _The song and movie titles do not completely mesh to give an accurate date, but I wanted to imply a general timeline._

 _Again, thanks so much. I hope you're having as much fun reading as I've had writing._

* * *

He was following her, and she was letting him.

What the hell was the matter with her?

She stepped up to the cashier's desk - at least, she assumed there was a desk somewhere underneath all that clutter - and paid for her books. She wondered if either of the men were curious about her choice in reading material. The proprietor carefully tucked the books into a white paper bag and crisply folded down the top; then relinquished them into her care with a nostalgic smile.

She made her way to the entrance of the shop and opened the door before realizing she was alone. She let the door fall back into place and turned to look for the stranger whose absence she could feel as strongly as if it were something tangible.

He must have felt her as well - felt her gaze when it fell on him - because he looked up and flashed her a crooked grin as he held out the money for the sappy romance novel.

"Knew I'd been looking for it the moment I saw it," he said to the owner with a wink. The older man stifled a smile and she narrowed her eyes.

Who did he think he was, anyway? What was he playing at?

This was a terrible idea. A completely ridiculous idea.

He was walking toward her now, arms swinging easily at his sides, the silly novel in one hand after he'd refused a bag for it.

She should run through this door and not look back.

She felt him again, the weight of his presence as he neared her. His eyes twinkled with humor, but there was darkness in them, too.

Who was he?

 _Run, Della_ , her head warned. _He'll be nothing but trouble_.

 _But he's not_ only _trouble_ , argued a voice from somewhere deep inside. Her intuition. She took note of the paradox exposed by his eyes, and her feet kept her firmly planted, waiting for him.

 _Not_ only _trouble_ , scoffed her head. She knew her common sense had a point, but she appreciated the honesty her intuition offered: this man would cause her trouble, yet there was the promise of something else.

Something more.

He was standing next to her now, his arm reaching behind her to hold the door open for her.

After all, it was only dinner. Maybe even just dessert. In a well-lit diner on a busy street.

She caught a whiff of aftershave, worn down by a stressful day and warmed by the scent of an intensity that throbbed beneath his skin. What little space there was between them tingled with electricity.

He waited patiently for her to start moving, but she stayed still, studying him. He didn't flinch under her stare, seeming rather to welcome it.

"I'm just going for the pie." She said it to the sensible part of herself that was still objecting to this arrangement, but it was he who answered, his eyes now wide and innocent.

"So am I."

-0-

She was aware of the looks. She was used to men gawking openly, as if they had some right to do so, as if she should take their lascivious ogling as some kind of compliment. But now, she was also aware that he attracted stares of his own. From women who could promise as much pleasurable promiscuity with a single glance as any man could. From men who sensed an imposing personality.

She was vaguely aware of the looks from couples. Admiring looks from those who thought she and this stranger were a couple themselves. It wasn't vanity that made her realize they must make a striking pair as she matched his steady stride with her graceful one, but rather caution. She didn't want him getting any ideas.

Too late.

When they stopped to wait their turn to cross at an intersection, he offered his arm to her. Without missing a beat, she tucked her bag of books into the crook of his elbow. He laughed, an infectious sound full of promises and mischief, and despite herself, she felt a tug at the corners of her mouth.

As he had assured her, the diner was not far. It was full of people as well as light, and they found a booth around the side and near the back. She slid onto the bench that faced the entrance, allowing her a clear view of the front of the restaurant. It smelled of coffee and cigarettes and food sizzling in well-seasoned grease. There was a jukebox behind her, playing an old, mellow Perry Como hit that was out of place in the lively, bustling atmosphere.

From out of nowhere, a waitress materialized, her demeanor relaxed and unhurried even as she was immediately placing napkins and silverware on the table and addressing the man seated across from her.

"Fancy meeting you here," she drawled. "And with a _date_ ," she added, raising her eyebrows pointedly while she drew a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad from her apron pocket.

He was quick to assure the waitress that she was not his date, that they were here to eat pie and drink coffee and discuss the writings of Oliver Wendell Holmes. The waitress looked about as convinced as if he'd said they'd seen a spaceship with little green aliens hovering over the boulevard on their way over. He pulled out the book as proof, but grinned sheepishly when he accidentally presented the ridiculous romance to the skeptical server. He quickly swapped it out with the works of the contemplative jurist. She turned to Della, giving her a brief once over.

"Mm-hmm."

Della wasn't concerned that she'd been taken for his date, or that the reaction from the waitress implied he was interested less in her mind and more in her looks. She was too busy being intrigued by the idea that he came here often enough to be recognized, and that he came here alone. She had not been wrong about the attention he had garnered on their short walk. Hell, _she_ was sitting here with him after meeting him in a store fifteen minutes ago. She couldn't believe he was incapable of finding company. Did he not have time for socializing? Or did he simply take his significant others to different, more formal venues?

Caught up in her scrutiny, she nearly missed that he was giving her a questioning look. She pounced on the tidbits of conversation that had floated in one ear and were about to leave through the other, reviewed them, and nodded her head in agreement.

"So that's two coffees and two apple pies for the scholars." The waitress addressed Della now, apparently already knowing her other customer's preferences. "Sugar? Milk?"

She shook her head.

With one more glance that said, _"Book discussion, my ass,"_ the waitress was gone.

"Come here often?" she asked.

"Only when I'm in the mood for a good meal served with a side of sarcasm."

Impossibly, the waitress was already back with two mugs that she filled with piping hot coffee almost the instant she set them down. Another few moments, and they had two huge slices of pie on the table in between them.

"She's fast."

"And generous with the baked goods."

"Well…?"

"Well…?" he echoed.

"I suppose there are the usual questions."

"Such as, 'What did you think of the book?' 'Did you prefer his poetry or his prose?' That sort of thing?" He watched her arch an eyebrow, then pretended to switch gears. "Oh, you mean, 'What do you do for a living?' 'What's your favorite color?'"

"'What's your sign?' 'How's the weather?'"

"'Do you have a good relationship with your mother?'" he ticked off tediously.

"'What's your name?'" she droned.

He nodded. "The usual, for sure. But also boring. Let's ask different questions."

"I'll let you start, just so I know what sort of questions you have in mind."

"Alright. Is this not the best pie you've ever had?"

She laughed. "I have to admit, this is a pretty good apple pie."

"Mountains, ocean, or desert?"

There was something about the way he said _desert_ , as if he'd reserved the best for last, that made her certain of his answer should she ask the same question. She set down her fork and traced the rim of her coffee cup thoughtfully. He watched her fingers trailing the circumference of the mug as though there were no more fascinating sight in all this world. Her stomach fluttered a little. Luckily, she was fairly adept at concealing things like stomach flutters, even from herself when necessary.

"Depends on my mood. But a safe bet would be _ocean_."

She supposed it was her turn. She wanted to ask his age - she was pretty good at estimating ages, but he was older than she was and she wanted to know how much older. However, that was definitely a usual question.

"Dancer or wallflower?"

He smiled and pulled his eyes away from her fingers. "Dancer. Classical, jazz, or this crazy rock and roll everyone's so into now?"

"Anything you can put words to. Not that you have to put words to it. I just like something with a melody. Do you take vacations?"

"Yes. I have to get away every so often, even though I rarely have the time to do so. But it never fails: after a few days, I'm ready to jump back into the noisy, obnoxious fray. Do you have roommates, or do you live alone?"

It was a warning flag kind of question, and she automatically became a bit more guarded when she answered. "Alone. But in a well-lit building off a busy street, with lots of nosy neighbors."

He chuckled, realizing he had chosen a question that could be taken wrong. "Good girl," he said.

The chiseled features of his face softened as he smiled. She felt approval of her independence, but also protectiveness, a combination that was remarkably alluring. She cast about for another question, eager to pretend she wasn't being completely drawn into him.

"What was the last movie you saw?"

" _Strangers on a Train_. You?"

" _The Quiet Man_. It's been awhile for you."

"Things have been a little hectic lately."

"Tell me a secret."

 _Tell me a secret?_ Where had that come from? Her common sense hung its head in disgusted defeat.

He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. She leaned in, too. The electric crackle became stronger, and she suppressed a shudder. He whispered conspiratorially, "I had apple pie for dinner last night, too."

She smiled widely. His eyes dropped down to her mouth before wandering back up to meet hers. "I had strawberry pie for dinner last week."

"We were meant to meet each other." The words were delivered lightly, but tossed into the charged air, they took on a tantalizing glow.

"How's that book discussion coming along?"

They both sat back, a little dazed to discover the waitress topping off their coffee.

"Swimmingly," he replied jauntily.

"Yeah, I'll bet." She retreated, and Della's attention went with her. Abruptly, she was reminded they weren't the only two people there, although the crowd was beginning to thin. Patsy Cline's musical lament wafting from the jukebox still didn't fit the mood.

"Want one?"

Della turned and saw a proffered cigarette. "Thank you."

He placed it in his mouth to light it, then passed it over to her before lighting his own. She saw him drag deeply and knew the tension in him had loosened somewhat. Probably as much as it ever did.

"What are you thinking?" he asked simply.

She shook her head. "Not much of anything. This and that."

"That doesn't happen often to me."

"I believe you. What about now?"

He slid down in his seat a little so that his head could rest back against the vinyl cushion of the booth. She felt a whisper of contact between his trousers and her stockings as his legs stretched toward her side. He didn't seem to notice. She was having trouble convincing herself that the stomach flutters were the result of sugar, caffeine, and pre-interview jitters. "Lots of things," he said. "But most of them aren't complete thoughts."

It was his turn, but he didn't ask anything and she didn't press. She was finally relaxing, too. It had been a long day already and it was far from over. Tomorrow was important and she had a lot to do to prepare for it. For now, she was content to share a cigarette with this man she didn't know, but felt she did; who she suspected was calmer with her than he had been in awhile. Though her feelings were all mixed up, she merely let them come and go without trying to analyze them.

Something maternal made her want to sit next to him, to scoot close and put her arm around him so to welcome his weary head onto her shoulder.

Something plutonic wanted only to sit steeped in this companionable silence while the other customers moved out into the world and the people who worked here began their nightly routine to clean up and restore order and get ready for the morning, which would come early and fast.

Something else was there, too. Something rare and reckless that made her want to run away with him, to see life as it existed through his eyes, to drive all night through the desert or along the coast, to unravel the mystery of him and explore all his paradoxes. To remind him that she lived alone, and ask him if he wanted to -

"If one more slow song comes on that jukebox, I'm either going to fall asleep or kick it to pieces." In an instant, he was on his feet and digging into his pockets for change. It didn't take long before she heard Frank Sinatra singing "Fly Me to the Moon."

He came back for her, holding out his hand. "Come on, it's a foxtrot."

"There's no dance floor," she protested, even though her mind was already made up. Every other possibility had melted away for the time being, and she wanted nothing more than to feel what it was like to dance with him.

He shrugged. "There's music, there's room. Kind of. C'mon."

He didn't have to ask again. It turned out that he danced the foxtrot divinely, that touching him made the sparks between them almost visible, that they fit perfectly against each other.

That the amused looks from the other diners and the mildly irritated sighs from the wait staff who had to skirt their makeshift dance floor with arms full of heavily laden trays - all of it bounced unacknowledged off the shiny exterior of their little bubble.

And that the waitress was right. There was no book discussion. In fact, when they left - five dances, another cigarette, and one more coffee refill later - she had to holler after them because they had forgotten their books in the booth.

 _to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

_I am still appallingly unresponsive to reviews. I will try harder. Please accept my apologies and know that I am truly grateful for the feedback and the company._

* * *

They strolled along at a comfortable pace. The peace he felt with her put everything else - the madness of the day, the seediness of human nature, even the traffic - into proper perspective.

He hadn't meant to move in closer to her, but he noticed he had done just that. Maybe when those two wise guys had passed them. He hadn't missed their wolfish gazes directed at her. It was afterward that he found himself a little further into her space. He felt protective of her.

He felt possessive of her.

He frowned when he realized that. She was bright and witty, lovely and independent. She didn't need the attentions of a middle-aged, overbearing, work-obsessed stranger. But he had a feeling he needed her. Despite having known her for a matter of hours, that was exactly why he was so attracted to her. She was good for him; different, yet somehow capable of understanding him.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to take her by the hand and run. To where, he had no idea. Anywhere she wanted. She liked the ocean, right? So he would take her up the coast. They would drive with nothing but the night around them and the road in front of them, and not stop until they got to this quiet little place he knew…

"I have to get home," she said, bringing his reverie to an abrupt and unpleasant halt.

"Oh." He couldn't mask the disappointment in his voice. She was too observant not to notice it.

"It's just that tomorrow is going to be a big day."

"Yeah?" He was still disappointed, but now he was curious, too.

"Mm-hmm." She hesitated before elaborating. "I have a job interview first thing in the morning."

"Really?" He considered the selections she'd made at the bookstore: Holmes's writings, a law dictionary, another whose cover was too worn for him to discern the title. He wondered if the lucky bastard who would soon be hiring a new employee was among his acquaintances in the legal community. Someone whom he occasionally had reason to visit.

Strictly for business purposes, of course.

"I won't go into work-related detail," she said, her eyes twinkling in the streetlight. "I don't want to get boring." He grinned. "But a friend of mine knows a girl who's looking for a replacement and…"

He was quiet as she trailed off. They went another half a block before she stopped and turned toward him, fierce determination flashing across her features.

He hadn't known she could look even more beautiful, but then he also hadn't known that the term _breathtaking_ could be used literally.

God, she was breathtaking.

"I have more to offer," she began, her voice low and husky. "I don't care about typing or filing or working switchboards. I need to earn a living and that's honest work. But I want it to be for a cause, you know? For some greater purpose. I don't need pats on the head and condescending praise from bosses who give the biggest salaries to the most shameless flirts. I am replaceable there as far as any of them are concerned. I want someone who...who knows he needs me. Who talks to me like I can understand more than -"

She stopped and laughed, her countenance not quite sweeping clear of the passion it had held; and her arms crossed and hugged tightly against her, as though she were cold. Was she cold? Or just self-conscious? He shifted the bag of books - his had ended up with hers - from one hand to the other in order to let his jacket slide off his arms. He draped it over her shoulders, and she looked up at him gratefully. As if he were some kind of hero just for keeping her warm.

"It's silly, anyway," she said quietly. "In the end, I'm just a girl who can type fast."

"If that's all who you are to the person you meet with tomorrow, promise me you won't take the job."

She smiled a little sadly, and the protective portion of his feelings for her surged forward. "Alright."

"I mean it."

She nodded once.

"And if that job turns out to be better for you, take it immediately."

"What makes you think they'll offer it to me?"

"Only an idiot wouldn't offer it to you."

"Thank you."

"In fact, we'll think positively." He started moving again so he wouldn't draw her to him and lift her chin up and kiss her, like he so desperately wanted to do. "You'll have an interview with a man of stellar character who offers you the job right away."

"Okay."

"Then we'll celebrate. Lunch at the diner."

"I don't know. Meatloaf isn't my favorite."

"Their meatloaf will make a believer out of you."

"Do you know if they'll have the dance floor open again?"

"They'll have it open," he promised, his casual voice betraying none of the euphoria he felt inside. "For us anyway. I'm a big tipper."

She sidled a little closer so her arm in his jacket grazed his in his shirtsleeve. "In that case, count me in."

He believed her. He trusted everything about her. And with her reassurance that he would see her again, he hailed a taxi cab.

But the desire to keep her with him was inexplicably strong; and thoughts of how wind from the open car windows would whip her hair around her face as they sped into the night for whatever adventure life could offer them were still fresh in his imagination. He stood alone on the sidewalk - one hand shoved in his pocket, the other with his jacket hooked over the back of his shoulder - while the taxi pulled away from the curb.

He couldn't make sense of it - he was hardly the romantic type - but somehow it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

 _to be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

_Ta-da!_

* * *

Della Street looked down at the four books she had lain in a row on her bed. She took her time and studied each one in turn. Three of them had the potential to be greatly useful. But the fourth kept vying for her attention...

The ticking of the alarm clock on her bedside table nudged its way into her consciousness. She had a good feeling about this job interview, which was only hours away, and she needed to be prepared for it. Time, the ticking so pointedly reminded her, was of the essence.

She placed the three books that belonged together in a neat pile next to the bossy clock. Then she scooped up the ridiculous romance, settled into bed, and flipped the pages to Chapter One.

-0-

Madeline Paige was right-handed, but that didn't prevent her from using her left hand for everything this morning. When she stopped at the newsstand for the morning paper, she held the coins in the palm of her right hand and counted them out with flourishy motions of her left. When her hair needed swept behind her ear, right or left, she reached up with her left hand. When she poured a cup of coffee, waved at her neighbors, unlatched the door to the law office - she put her left hand in charge. She took any chance to favor the hand that showcased her new diamond, whose carefully and cleverly cut facets made the small stone glitter regally in sunlight and office light alike, as though it had been culled from some queen's collection of crown jewels.

She couldn't wait to marry Jimmy Boring. She couldn't wait to tell all her friends. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

But first she had to tell her boss.

-0-

Perry Mason let himself into his office using the private entrance from the hall. He had been in a bit of a fog all morning, as if life were bustling around him, but he could only notice one thing at a time. Usually the irrelevant thing. For example, now that he stood just inside the door, his eyes skipped over the jumble of law books he'd left open and waiting on the table a day or so before this most recent court date had snagged his attention. He was definitely oblivious to the stacks of mail on his desk.

Miss Paige was already in; he could hear her typing at an impressive and furious speed in her own office adjacent to his.

He took a deep breath, inhaling books and ink and cigarettes and the worn leather of the furniture.

He made eye contact over his desk with the bust of Blackstone. Had the old fellow always looked so serious? They regarded each other critically - Blackstone from his place atop a sturdy bookshelf; Mason from his buoyant position on the cloud that was floating under his feet.

He decided Blackstone needed to lighten up. He removed his hat and took aim at the stodgy old boy.

A split second before he felt the brim leave his fingertips, the door to the front office opened up. The noise startled him and he frowned as the hat spun through the air and fell short of its target. If Blackstone could have smirked, he would have.

He turned around, intending to give a mock admonishment to his secretary. But then he realized the typing hadn't stopped.

"How are you in _here_ , if you're in _there_?" he asked, jerking his head toward the sound of clacking keys.

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Mason."

"Right. Good morning. Now, about your ability to be in two places at once…?"

Madeline Paige shook her head. "That would be very helpful, especially working for you. However, the only place I am is here."

"Then who -?"

"Her name is Della Street." Madeline cleared her throat. "My replacement."

"Am I going to need to sit down for this?"

Madeline fought a grin and lost. "I'm getting married."

"You are! Well, congratulations! Who's the lucky guy?"

She rolled her eyes. "Jimmy, of course."

"Of course." He kept his tone light, trying to focus on her happiness rather than on the fact that she was signing on for a lifetime of drudgery.

Madeline continued. "It happened yesterday. Completely out of the blue! I certainly didn't expect it. Jimmy came here during his lunch break and asked me to marry him right out there in the reception area!"

"Jimmy wants to marry you in the reception area?"

"He -... What? No, no, no. He _proposed_ to me out in the reception area. Isn't that romantic?"

Perry Mason had never proposed marriage to a woman before, but he was fairly certain there were more romantic ways to go about it than dropping by the office of his intended on his lunch break. Madeline, however, was too excited and too enamored of the bland young man to care about such matters. He decided to let it go.

"Isn't it though?" was the only rejoinder he could come up with. It sounded a little flat to his own ears, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to tell you right away, but you were in court all day and you didn't come back; and Jimmy and I had so much to discuss. He's been offered a job out of state, and he has to start three weeks from now. Three weeks!"

"And you'll probably want to go with him," Mason mused, rather perplexed.

"Absolutely. But it means there's a lot to take care of in a short amount of time. Right before we leave, we're going to have a simple ceremony in front of the justice of the peace."

"So this Stella Lane…?"

"Street. _Della_ Street. I figured you would want me to start training a replacement as soon as possible, and heaven only knows when you'll hold still long enough to thumb through resumes; so I took the liberty of getting in touch with a friend of mine who had recently been searching for a job. She actually just started a new one last week, but she knew a girl who was looking for a change."

"And that's why Della... _Street_ is typing up a storm in your office."

"Isn't she a wonder? You'll have the final say, of course, but her credentials are impeccable, and you can hear how fast she types. She's been as efficient with every other sample task I've given her as she is with this one."

 _A girl who types fast._ Something clicked, and the fog lifted. "What you're saying is, I have an interview this morning?"

"You do, and as I said, I understand you have the final say. I can line up some more candidates for you, but quite frankly you're crazy if you pass on a girl like this."

Crazy not to hire a girl who types fast. It couldn't be.

It just couldn't.

Mason turned around to retrieve a book of matches from his desk. He looked questioningly at Blackstone, but the stoic jurist wasn't giving anything away.

"I guess I'd better meet this friend of your friend."

-0-

Madeline Paige was a wonderful secretary. Organized, efficient, dedicated. But she lacked imagination. It was the one complaint Mason had ever harbored, unvoiced, in his mind. So focused on her tasks and to-do lists, she rarely took time to observe anything extraneous to accomplishing those things. When he asked her about the clients who paced the outer office or who lit up the switchboard in a panic, she couldn't tell him whether their demeanors stemmed from nervousness or impatience or guilt. Neither did she care to. It wasn't in her job description. She had a hundred things to do. Pegging the emotional states of clients wasn't one of them.

She introduced Della Street to Perry Mason, and Perry Mason to Della Street.

If Miss Street looked a little stiff as she formally acknowledged the introduction, it was probably because she was nervous. Who wasn't nervous at a job interview?

And if Mr. Mason seemed very interested in studying his potential employee, it could be chalked up to his insatiably curious nature. He was always unabashedly studying people to a degree Madeline felt was completely inappropriate.

"Here is Miss Street's resume. I've been keeping her busy, and she's aced every task. You've seen for yourself how she types." Madeline began ticking qualifications off on her fingers. On her left hand. "Switchboard, shorthand, dictation - she does it all."

Without the sound of the typewriter, and with Madeline's singing of Miss Street's praises tapering off, there was a silence in the office that Madeline almost noticed was awkward.

Almost.

"Thank you, Miss Paige," the lawyer finally said, his eyes flickering toward her for the briefest of moments. "I'll take it from here."

Madeline beamed. She'd been right about this one, she just knew it! She was getting married, and everything was falling into place. She spun toward the door leading to the waiting room, pulled the door shut behind her, and settled at the switchboard with a contented sigh.

 _Oh, happy day_ , she thought to herself. And the pretty little diamond on her left hand winked at her in agreement.

-0-

For a while, they remained frozen in place, the silence growing heavier with each held breath that wasn't released.

Mason moved first. He indicated that she should retake the seat behind the desk. He sat across from her, taking his time as he lit a cigarette. He offered it to her; she shook her head - a nearly imperceptible movement. He returned it to his lips and inhaled deeply.

Della Street had tentatively regained her composure. She held still so as not to lose her hold on it.

"I apologize for being late," Mason said coolly. "I didn't realize my secretary had scheduled this interview."

"So I gathered," Della replied, her aloof tone matching his.

He brought one foot up to rest it on the knee of his other leg, and a invisible scuff on the toe of his shoe caught his attention. She watched him draw a handkerchief from his pocket to buff it out.

As he worked on the scuff that wasn't really there, he said entirely too casually, "We might have to make this short. You see, I was late getting here, and I have a lunch date soon."

"Do you?" she asked pointedly.

"Yes. To celebrate a new job."

"Are you changing careers?"

"Not my new job. Someone else's."

"I see."

He stopped then - put both feet on the floor, shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket, ground out the cigarette, and leaned forward earnestly. "I'm certain she'll be offered it."

"How do you know?" Della whispered.

"Only an idiot wouldn't hire her. I may be many things, but an idiot isn't one of them. Usually."

She laughed, but the sound conveyed sadness as much as amusement. "But you said it was a lunch _date_."

His brow furrowed. "I did say that."

"I need this job, Mr. Mason."

"It's yours. But only if you don't call me Mr. Mason."

"I can't address you by your first name."

"Why not?" he demanded. "Didn't you catch it?"

"I caught it, alright," she responded wryly. "From my friend who recommended me for this position, from the lettering on the front door, from your current secretary. From the newspapers and the radio."

He sat back with a careless wave of his hand. "Alright, so my reputation precedes me."

"My point is…"

He waited, but she didn't continue. "Your point is…?" he prodded.

She put her fingers into position over the keys of the typewriter. He watched as she feigned the motions of typing, giving her time to put her thoughts in order.

But she took too long and he grew impatient. "In this office, we have a policy of being uncomfortably honest with each other."

She looked up. "Always?"

He nodded, then frowned. "Well, almost always. About professional matters, anyhow. I've held my tongue when it comes to Miss Paige's lackluster taste in fiancés."

"Lackluster?"

"The lad's as boring as hell. In fact, his _name_ is Boring. I don't know if it was a sign or a self-fulfilled prophecy."

"Is that his biggest fault?"

"Being uninteresting is the biggest fault a person can have," Mason declared.

Della Street crossed her arms. "When it comes to a marriage partner, there are worse grievances."

"I'd be hard-pressed to name any."

"You're right not to bring it up with Miss Paige."

"I told you: I'm not an idiot."

"But you are honest."

"I try to be. People deserve honesty."

"I have a dilemma."

"Then you've come to the right place. It just so happens that people's dilemmas are the stuff of my career."

"I met someone."

"Oh? What sort of someone?"

"The sort of someone who I am certain is utterly incapable of being boring."

"He has my approval." Mason looked a little startled by the decisiveness of his own pronouncement. He cleared his throat sheepishly. "At least, I think he does. If he is who I think he is."

"He is," Della assured him, a little of the sparkle resurfacing in her eyes.

"Alright, go on then," he demanded gruffly. As if his bluster could fool her.

"It's just that I'm not sure _who_ I met."

"Why does this conversation keep getting so damned philosophical?"

As if he didn't know why.

"I like him. But I don't know if he's my lunch date or my employer."

"Why can't he be both?"

"Because I'm not that kind of secretary," she said quietly.

Of course, she wasn't.

She wanted to work for someone who saw her as capable, dedicated, serious. Professional. Not as an ornament. Not as an office dalliance.

He nodded. "I know. And despite what sounded like a proposition from me just now, I've never been that kind of boss."

"So what do we do?"

"Honestly?"

"I hear that's the policy around here."

Mason took a deep breath. "I need you."

The only change in her expression was the slight widening of her eyes. He hurried on to clarify.

"Look. I'm _not_ an idiot. And I realize I only _feel_ that I know you. I don't _really_ know you. Not yet. But last night…" He dragged his hands through his hair, wishing he still had his cigarette to focus on as he fumbled for the right words. The words that would keep her here and not send her running away from him as fast as possible.

She stood up and moved around to where he was, took the chair next to his. She crossed her knees and angled herself toward him.

"Tell me."

He let himself relax, melting into her liquid gaze, and pushed all his metaphorical chips into the pile. "You're good for me," he confessed. "I don't know how I know that. I just know, after spending a single evening with you, I… I need you. You can hear me. You understand me. I need that. I need...you."

There. Honesty in its rawest form. If she didn't run now…

"You should know some things about me."

"Alright," he said, still not taking her presence for granted.

"I get grumpy when I'm not fed regularly."

"And meatloaf doesn't do it."

"No. Definitely not meatloaf."

"So noted. Anything else?"

"I run a tight ship. I've read about your escapades, and I know you like to be a hands-on sort of lawyer. But I am a firm believer in a well-ordered work space. Office chores are a fact of life."

"Got it."

"As for the...non-professional nature of our initial meeting. We should address it."

"Alright. How about this? You need a job. I need a secretary. We both need lunch."

She pursed her lips. "So we go to lunch?"

"Sure. But I'm not just any old sort of lawyer."

"So I'm not likely to be any old sort of secretary."

"Maybe neither of us quite fits any established molds. Maybe we can write our own rules."

"What if it turns out we can't stand each other?"

Mason laughed. "I'm sure there will be plenty of times you can't stand me."

"I don't scare easily."

"That is obvious, since you're still here."

"So we start with lunch?"

"Yes. A time for everything. Right now, we celebrate." He stood and walked over to the door that separated their offices, held it open for her.

She lingered a few moments, giving it all a little more thought. "Alright. Why not?"

Della joined him - and stopped short at the sight of his office. "Oh."

Mason looked at the scene before him and considered how it must look to her. "Um, yes. Well, it's not usually this bad."

"Mm."

He stepped inside, scooped up his keys, and looked around for his hat. He flinched when he saw her by his desk, examining the piles of mail that had merged together and were now slipping and sliding precariously toward the edges. She looked up suddenly, but rather than let her catch his eye, he resumed his search for the missing hat like the coward he'd never known he was.

"What's this?" she asked, her voice muffled. He turned and saw she had stooped down to reach something under his desk. When she straightened up, he beheld the rogue hat in her hands.

He snapped his fingers. "That's right! I forgot I'd tossed it across...the, um…"

She watched him feign the throwing motion with his arm, turned to see what target he was aiming at behind her. She regarded the bust of Blackstone with amusement. "Is this his hat then?"

"Apparently, he misplaced his other one."

"I see." She placed it on top of Blackstone's head, the brim properly straight.

Mason walked over and tipped it back a little.

"He is rolling over in his grave right now," Della admonished him.

"Yes, but _I_ feel better."

"You know what would make _me_ feel better?" she asked, eyeing the cluttered desk.

"Meatloaf," was Mason's deliberately obtuse response.

"No."

"Sure it will." He tugged at her elbow. "We have a book discussion to attend."

"I'm not sure about your priorities," Della replied skeptically. "This might not work after all."

"Trust me. It'll be fine."

"Trust you."

"Yeah."

"Against my better judgment, I do."

He smiled. "I'll take it. Thank you. And congratulations."

She smiled back. "Thank _you_. Oh! I almost forgot." She hurried back to the other office and reemerged with her own hat, gloves, a purse - and the romance novel. "Just in case."

"You know, I still haven't read that one."

"I did."

"Did you? Really?"

"Mm-hm."

"What did you think?"

"I'll save the specifics for the discussion. But I'll tell you this: it was dreadful."

"So you don't recommend it?" he asked, holding the door to the hallway open for her.

"Oh, absolutely. It was dreadful, but in a highly entertaining way."

"Like a train wreck."

"Exactly. I couldn't put it down."

"I can't wait to get started," Mason said.

"I wonder what's next," Della mused.

He took the book.

She took his arm.

-0-

The diner's Wednesday special made Della a believer in meatloaf. But she still preferred the apple pie.

Mason made sure the dance floor was open. This time, he threw in a couple slow songs.

The book discussion group was oh-for-two with their agenda. They left the waitress's tip inside the romance novel on the table.

 _The End_


End file.
